Self editing 4 fiction #4 ~ Point of View

Table Talk by Stef Mcdaid

~ Short story ~ Debut novelist hosts dinner party to get reviews ~

Everyone
loved Julia’s dinner parties. She had such flair; be it fish or fowl a chap
could not resist her toothsome alchemy. If only her book didn’t suck so regally,
Ollie mused as he waited for the elevator in the overblown lobby. Not that he’d
read that much of it. Whoever on earth had front-loaded self publishing should
be shot once or twice in the head. He’d graciously accepted a copy of Julia's debut
novel at her last dinner party – as did the other guests: each
and all promising faithfully to digest the adventures of Lara: Psychic Detective. And even through the drowsy mist of a few
too many cups...he’d discerned a certain homage paid – and due – a now that we’re both writers sort of
thing.

He
stepped into the elevator, reminding himself to mind his Frenchwhile
among such gentile company, but broke the oath immediately as he spotted
Arabella breezing into the lobby. He quickly pressed the button. His sense of
déjà vu heightened on the 13th floor when the inimitable Rodrigo came puffing
through the fire escape doors with a notebook in (disposable-gloved) hand.

Mwahs
duly exchanged, Julia led he and Rodders to join the other guests, but Ollie
had already anticipated they would consist of her loyal readership from
the previous dinner party. They took their places at the table and waited for Arabella, though
what she’d find to eat now that asparagus was out of season confounded even
Ollie’s imagination.

At
the foot of the table, Rodrigo busied himself polishing his glass and cutlery
with several alcohol wipes before setting them in perfect juxtaposition.

A
ring of the doorbell – and enter Arabella, smile freezing in place as she realized
that her arch-enemy Simona was present, politically incorrect, and seated
opposite the only vacant chair. This should be fun: fawning, yet tactless
herbal hippy Simona in a rematch with anal, Chelsea socialite. Ollie smiled
across to Dave, who was sweetly oblivious to most things – including the
whereabouts of his wife’s G spot; not surprising that she’d jumped ship on him,
really. She still exchanged the occasional orgasm with Ollie, though.

A
tantalizing hint of roasting meat followed Julia out of the kitchen as she
wheeled the night’s first delight toward them: Gazpacho soup, served in hand-painted
Lolita cocktail glasses, and
sprinkled with crystals of ice.

That
was just it with Julia: the delicate touch to chill and clear one’s palate,
arousing the senses to maximum. Ollie was starving – could now eat a horse –
and if his nose wasn’t fibbing to him, there was one roasting in the kitchen.
The hippy will surely be furious!

“So
what did you think of my novel, Dave?” Julia asked while they waited for
Arabella to finish playing with her soup.

Ollie
smiled to himself.

“Erm
yes,” said Dave. “Very good, indeed. Lovely cover as well. I’m still on the
prologue – page sixty-seven, I think. Can’t wait for the action to begin.”

Julia
seemed satisfied with Dave’s paltry offering and turned her attention to
Arabella, who looked rather affronted at being placed on the spot.

“Reaally,
Julia,” she oozed. “Now you know I’m saving it until I winter in Dubai. I’m
sure my girl will have packed it already.”

Credit
where it’s due, thought Ollie; not a bad excuse at all, that. Although it left
him with fewer options; perhaps he could explain that his dog had eaten it? No,
that wouldn't wash. The book was fat enough to choke a goat. It seemed as though
Julia was trawling her way around the table for feedback on ‘Lara’: if that were the case, Rodders
would be next in the chair.

Ollie
was far from disappointed with Julia’s tender horse steak, drizzled with
wild-mushroom sauce. Simona was containing her vegetarian indignation quite
well, so Ollie waved a meaty forkful to get her attention. “How’s the spicy
tofu, m’girl?” he asked. “Chained yerself to any famous railings of late?”

Simona
giggled. “Now don’t you go on about me getting my bag stolen, Ollie. I’ll chain
it up as well next time…” She looked over at Arabella, who was carefully
dissecting a green bean. “You really ought to eat more, love,” Simona said
helpfully. “You look even skinnier than last time – it’ll do your spiritual
aura no good.”

Arabella
sat bolt upright in her chair, but settled for smiling her contempt back at
Simona, which was probably for the best. Simona had won hands down at
their last billing, thanks to her formidable lack of social skills. Every ball
served by Arabella had strayed hopelessly high or wide.

Rodrigo’s
turn duly arrived, après cheval, while the other guests, replete, tippled Louis Jadot and exhaled Sobranie or cigar smoke in lazy,
satisfied clouds. Rodrigo reached for his notebook, gave it the alcohol-wipe
treatment, and carefully opened it.

He
cleared his throat. “Your first paragraph is eight and a quarter pages long,”
he began, “which makes it very hard to follow.” He looked up at Julia, who
blinked back and nodded ever so slightly.

“There
is quite a lot of ambiguityin your descriptions; for
example, you write: The old lady in the
market was draped in a grey, worn cloak drinking steaming hot chocolate.
I’ll give you the other examples when we reach them.”

Rodrigo
turned the page. “I was confused by what I think must be a spelling mistake in
the ferry scene, where it reads: ...Mariah
Carey was whaling in the background. You spelled wailing with a w-h-a.”

Ollie
almost choked on his grog as an image of the renowned singer sprang into his
head: clad in oilskins, sporting a sou’wester and brandishing a long harpoon.
But this wouldn’t do. Rodders was about to shatter the lovely Julia’s model
into precise smithereens. He remembered how much it had hurt when the sniffy,
fickle critics unearthed and clobbered his
debut novel. Best turn the subject to a more favored one. Ollie leaned sideways
and fixed Rodrigo with a searching gaze.

“That’s
exactly how I felt at the onset,” Ollie replied, “but within hours I was
reduced to a shivering, sweating wreck.”

“I
do have a bit of a headache coming on,” Rodrigo conceded, and after a few more
of Ollie’s clinical observations he politely excused himself for the evening.
Ollie thoughtfully offered the services of Arabella’s chauffer who was waiting
by the entrance below.

Last
up on the trolley was peanut butter and jelly ice-cream sandwich. That very
afternoon, Gordon Ramsay himself had found his way out of the Maze to help his friend Julia prepare
his flagship dessert. Ollie could imagine Julia trying not to wince as the
famous chef cussed his way through the preparation of her favorite pud.

Ollie
realized he’d have to think up a pretty good excuse while herbal Simona gave a
glowing review of Lara’s unlikely
exploits. After all, she’d contributed as technical psychic adviser and would
hardly shoot herself in either of her synthetic moccasins.

Julia
turned to Ollie. “Did you anticipate who the murderer was, Ollie?”

Ollie
flinched, ice-cream sliding from his spoon to cruelly punctuate his surprise at
the jump in order – of course, she already had Simona’s opinion, in spades.

“Are
you okay, Ollie?” Arabella asked, adding fuel to the pyre. The smug bitch
couldn’t fully hold back the smile that accompanied her mischief. Right. He’d
have to think fast. If he were to tell a lie now it would have to be a
completely outrageous one. Where the hell was his muse? He’d have to buy some
time.

“Actually,
Jules,” he declared, “I have something very
revealing about your book.” He paused for effect. “I was rather hoping to save
it for coffee and mint time.”

The
only consolation Ollie had gleaned from his shambolic marriage to Helen was the
introduction to her schoolgirl chum, Julia. And he and Julia had become firmer
friends since Helen’s funeral. Ollie never refused her kind offers of
sustenance and relished each occasion with deserved anticipation. Helen would
be spinning in her grave, of course, if she could see Ollie being tended to by
the lovely Julia. And now, all eyes were expectantly upon him as he took to the
floor, coffee liqueur in hand. The room fell silent, aside from the tidy tick
of a mantle clock, and Ollie paused for an exact number of moments before
launching into his rather hastily tacked-together account.

“Just
yesterday morning, after breaking my fast, I set the logs crackling in the
hearth and settled down in my rocker to follow Lara: Psychic Detective as she diced, no doubt, with hell and high
water in her brave crusade against crime. Then the room took on an eerie chill;
had a window blown open? I felt a strange unease as I returned, having checked
them, to find the flames dancing devilishly fiercer than usual. ‘Steady on
there,’ I said, ‘you’ll have the chimney afire at this rate.’ This seemed to
appease whatever possessed it, and the licks of the flames diminished.”

Ollie
drained, then refilled his glass before returning to his captivated audience.
“The bitter chill returned even colder as I picked up the book and tried, in
vain, to open the jacket. ‘Behave yourself!’ I admonished the book, as I
continued to wrestle with its reticence. After a desperate struggle it seemed
to comply, then a bouquet of Helen’s favorite perfume filled the room as the
book finally relented and opened – I watched in startled fascination as each
letter began to fall from the page to the floor, like termites shaken from a
stick. I could not help but cast it into the fire, such was my trepidation.”

Ollie
gave Julia his most quizzical, sympathetic smile. He raised his glass in a
silent toast to his muse, then threw back the liqueur for good measure. Now, if
that tall, wee tale wasn’t outrageous enough…

Thank you so much for the feedback Robin. Pity that Google wiped your comment (been there) but I think I know what you allude to. It's hard to interact 6 souls in 1800 words and provide a scenario and enough inferred back-story to give it sufficient body. I'm really pleased the "place on the path" element was apparent in the PoV of the (jaded but not really judicious) MC.

Good for you. How hateful to have a dinner and force guests to critique a debut novel! Passing thoughts that yours was a tad over-written were submerged by your unique resolution. Boy, for God's sake don't read mine! (But I guess that's the point of this flash fiction?) x x

Guilty as charged on the flamboyant wordiness of the voice, which I thought would best match Ollie's PoV. But there is always room to improve; though they say a story is abandoned rather than finished.

It was a bit of fun to write, and is loosely based on editing experiences in the 90s, believe it or not...